The Bird in the Vanishing Cabinet
by DozRial
Summary: "The Bird in the Vanishing Cabinet" primarily shows what Draco Malfoy was going through during the whole Harry Potter era. Set around HBP with excerpts from the books and scenes from the films. May contain angst, character death, drama, and mature language. AN: I tried to stay true with the books and this is how I interpreted Draco Malfoy. Reviews are encouragements. Enjoy. -DR
1. Prologue

**The Bird in the Vanishing Cabinet**

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. All of these characters, plot points and even excerpts from the Harry Potter series are all owned by the Goddess, J.K. Rowling. I just wanted to see what's going on in Draco Malfoy's mind and maybe, play with the truth for a bit. Enjoy._

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_Prologue_

Living is suffering, and the only rational thing is to end it. And yet, we always find reasons to continue living. Career, family, curiosity, love… whatever it may be, it keeps us alive. But for what purpose? Some say, it's purely to live _for_ others, or that dying is surrendering. Such sweet surrender, that is. For in death, there'll be no more pain, no more problems, and definitely, no more Harry Potter.


	2. Chapter 1

The bird's dead.

His piercing grey eyes darted around the crowded room with precision. He knew it's silly of him to look for the bushy brown mane that deeply resembled her house's mascot but he can't help it. It was as if it's an automatic reaction, a reflex.

Then, he saw it. His face contorted into a smile that looked more like an evil grimace and all of his dreary thoughts were out of his mind like magic, quickly replaced by anger and rage.

"Look at that Potter boy. Loving the attention given to him as always."

He couldn't care less about the irrational admiration wizards and witches alike graced upon Potter but for one thing.

"Surely. Yet the Dark Lord's focus upon Draco is far greater than any sort of praise and high regard Potter could ever conjure up his sleeve."

Draco clenched his eyes shut and took a steady breath. He turned to his cohorts and gave them the smuggest smile he could do.

"You are very lucky, Draco, truly."

_Bullshit._ He thought maliciously. Crabbe and Goyle were anything but jealous. But his mocking and proud days are over. For now. He's got a task to be done.

His eyes flitted unpermitted to the trio. It seemed that the redheaded nobody is in an argument with the bucktooth brunette. _Are they ever not in a fight?_ And the Potter boy with his unkempt hair that shows no maternal love whatsoever is apparently deep in thoughts. _Plotting another adventure, eh, Potter? _

_Or, quite possibly, still thinking about the Hogsmeade episode or that stupid Slughorn's mead._

His blood ran cold and his face became paler than ever when Potter, seemingly have read his mind, looked towards their direction. It became even worse when he took the attention of his best mates on which, after mumbling a few words Draco couldn't hear over the distance and the chatter, made the other two turn around and look to his direction as well.

He threw his best menacing look back at them and went back to his food, scowling.

"Potter and his runabouts are talking about you, Draco."

He stabbed at the potato in his plate and grunted noncommittally.

"I reckon he knows about the task. He pieced everything together, that great Sherlock. The necklace, and the mead. Seemed to make sense he said."

He still refused to look at Montague, who had been saying all this unsaid thoughts from Draco's head out loud. He grabbed his goblet roughly and took a swig of Goyle's stolen Firewhiskey. He felt a bit warmer than he was seconds ago, and colour coming back to his cheeks.

"Granger thought otherwise though."

Tears sprang from his eyes, threatening to spill out as he choked, coughing with all his might. His throat and windpipe are burning and his nose as well.

"Are you alright, Draco?" Parkinson moved from her chair across him, leaned forward and tried to slap his back to aide.

"Stop it, Pansy." He managed through his laboured breaths. "You're hurting me." _With your large, heavy hand._

"Sorry."

He would have snapped and slashed some varied insults for touching him without permission, or said his thoughts out loud but a light sensation bubbling from his stomach to his chest vanished all this murky feelings. He feels light-headed and a smile is threatening to come across his thin lips.

This unusual emotion plastered across the pale face of a Malfoy, son of a father who is incarcerated and who had been not-so recently given a mission by the Dark Lord himself, seemed to be scaring the Slytherins around him. He doesn't care.

He found himself looking at the Gryffindor table again, staring holes into those glorious brown locks, and never truly knowing what's going on in her captivating mind.

He's feeling grateful, that for once, somebody thought not of ill of him. But at the same time, he felt ire at this seemingly naïve and stupid muggle-born witch, who everyone thought to be the smartest witch of their age.

The conversations came to a halt and most of the students turned their heads to the Great Hall's door. Then, hoots of celebration were echoed all over the room, concentrated on the Gryffindor table.

The white-blond Slytherin craned his head to take a gander at what's happening and the moment he did, he wished he hadn't.

"Katie Bell!"

"Draco?"

He rushed through the throngs of people, taking the opportunity of invisibility and lack of attention other than towards the victim of a cursed necklace. He felt hot. He's sweating madly like he never sweated before. His eyes scanned his forward frantically. His legs walked mechanically. His mind was going for a hundred miles per minute.

Finally, he reached his apparent destination. A bathroom.

He wrenched the door open, while removing his unbearable sweater and untying his green and silver tie. He hurried to the sinks, washed his face and looked, rather reluctantly, at his reflection.

Being a Death Eater is now taking a toll on Draco Malfoy. Not that it hadn't been for a while, but after weeks of denying the fear and trepidation crawling from his Goosebumps-laden skin to his warded off mind, he is finally faced with the harsh reality relayed by a piece of pressurized sand.

His hair seemed to be thinning, his eyes bagged heavily, and his smirk turned to a nasty upside down smile. The mark on his arm seemed to be throbbing although he's sure, deep inside his mind that it isn't. Not yet, anyway.

Gone was his youth, his quite innocent silver eyes, his used to be straight nose, and his mouth that seemed to be fixed in a furled smirk. But most of all, he missed his untainted mind, and unmarked skin. And lastly, he sure as hell, is going to miss his undestroyed soul.

People, of whom he loved, flickered through his mind like a photo album: his mum's worry-etched features, his father morose and death-eaten and, quite forbiddingly, a familiar young face with horrible teeth despite having _dentists _for parents, shining with wisdom and beaming with hope. He shamelessly, feeling protected by the solidarity and the walls of his mind, lingered at the muggle-born he called mudblood years and years ago, who fought him without hesitation or doubt, slapping him in the face, throwing hexes and jinxes at him to protect her friends…

His olden face scrunched up in retaliation. Her _friends_, particularly Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the blibbering idiot who formed an army of other idiots who would fight and die for the blibbering idiot...

He composed his features as best as he can when he heard distinct footsteps from behind. He slowly took hold of his wand from his pocket and faced the mirror once more.

It's the blibbering idiot.

Rage seared through him like a newly-sharpened knife. The reason of why everything that had been happening to him is now right in front of him, or rather behind him. And one spell, two words, can stop all this nonsense. Why does he have to exist anyway? His parents are dead; his only relatives don't want anything to do with him... Draco sees no reason for Potter to go on. Or could it be? That he had fallen madly in love with his friend, a certain brunette who had always been loyal to him ever since second year?

But that's mad! If he were to fall for a - a _mudblood_, wouldn't it be common courtesy to just kill himself and be done with it? Maybe if the Potter boy's dead, and the Dark Lord's goal is complete, well, he would focus on purifying their race and Draco, a pureblood, would have nothing to worry about, and no one would suspect him... He could, maybe, probably, take _her_ under his wing and –

"Expelliarmus!"

He ducked swiftly and poised the wand to attack. His thoughts are murderous. _Potter and Granger_.

Blue sparks emitted from his wand to Harry. With par agility, he moved out of the way.

It was like a choreographed dance. A morbid, dangerous, but wondrously choreographed dance. They used the divisors as shields and the ins and outs and walls as hiding corners. They briefly recognised a ghostly gasp and gaggle before it was muted.

"Cruci-"

"Sectumsempra!"

Coursing pain from different parts of his body that bleeds indefinitely coloured Draco's white shirt, he fell unceremoniously to the wet floor and released agonised cries of despair and hurt.

And through this, he thought dimly. Maybe this is the solution after all. For me to die. I wouldn't have to escape and hide from the Dark Lord. I wouldn't have to kill Dumbledore or help the ruthless Death Eaters into the castle.

This thought seemed to numb him. He even managed to scrape a smile. _Safe, in the hands of Death._

But something seemed to awaken a monster inside of him. He couldn't die this way. Not in a washed up bathroom where he spilled all his secrets and forbidden thoughts. Not without cause. And certainly, not in the hands of Potter.

He rebelled against all odds, especially the fierce and rough hand that is pushing him down.

"I- I want to-"

"Shut it, Draco, I'm _helping_ you."

"Professor." He hissed. "I- I don't need- your help!"

The hooked face of the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher merely glared and continued his incantations.

Slowly, Draco can feel an imminent change from pain to bits of relief. When he can manage to sit up, he looked at his saviour and said menacingly, "I am Chosen. Not you. Stop thieving over my glory."

"You know full well that I couldn't care less about your _glory_, Draco."

Draco ignored him and while the blood still stained on his clothes, he stood up, rather weakly, and looked for his wand. He felt uneasy, very uneasy, with Professor Snape.

"I know too much, Professor." He looked very sternly into his Professor's beady black eyes, his hand clutched around his wand.

Looking at the two, the dissimilarities are uncanny, black and white, in each possible physical way. But inside, they are very alike. Not just the dark mark that is branded in their inner left forearms. But the bright-haired muggle-borns they seemed to be enchanted to.

And this makes Draco uncomfortable. The thought is easy to get rid of but when the physical representation of what would happen, to him, in the future, if this is to be led on, staring through him with those accomplished eyes is just overpowering.

"I can see that you've been handling your barrier quite strongly, Draco. Despite Potter's... attack."

"I've been practising."

Every night on his fourth year, it had been customary to both Draco and Severus to meet at the latter's office for an Occlumency lesson. It is chiefly for Draco's benefit, of course, for his thoughts had not only needed to be obscured from Dumbledore, but also to the Dark Lord. For Draco knows and thinks too much.

In complete opposite of Harry Potter's Occlumency lessons, on which he was _thrown out _because he saw forbidden memories of Severus on his Pensieve one night, Draco had been forced in because he saw forbidden memories of Severus on his Pensieve one night.

And being so close to the Dark Lord, who is an accomplished Legilimens, knowing these dark, dark secrets of Severus Snape could mean not only the death of Severus Snape, but also, Dumbledore's downfall.

Professor Snape's lips was pursed and an eyebrow up dubiously.

A flash of Severus Snape holding a lifeless redhead wavered through Draco's mind and he limped out of the flooded bathroom, leaving the Professor alone.


End file.
